The Heir
by Fflur Cadwgawn
Summary: Sam and Dean run headlong into a case that has direct ties with their father, and rescue a young teen from an abusive stepfamily. Werewolves and shapeshifters complicate things (what else is new?). Based on the Trixie Belden series.
1. Then: The Summerhouse Incident

**disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable.**

A/N: I've only recently just begun watching Supernatural. I know, I know...but let's face it. I hate horror. The first season was tough to get through. But then...the series turned magical.

I have been playing with this idea for a while and it just didn't want to leave me alone. I'm not calling it a cross over because there isn't a big following for the series it's a crossover with.

For those of you wondering if my other stories will be updated...we shall see. I'm a cultural anthropologist and had to go off and do fieldwork for a year or so, and then got invited back when I got back, and then I wound up being a site assistant with an archaeology dig, and managing some sites myself. I'm really hoping the muse stays firmly put with this story, but career comes first, yeah?

So without further ado, I present a certain very nostalgic girl detective (not Nancy Drew) crossover.

* * *

Chapter 1:

The Summerhouse Incident

 _ **THEN…...**_

John Winchester groaned silently at the sound of whimpering in the back seat of the Impala. If he knew Sammy, the youngster was feeling hot, cranky, and probably crampy. They had stopped to have dinner at a small out of the way joint back in White Plains, NY and Sammy hadn't been feeling very well then, and had just poked at his dinner, sniffling. He'd been unusually quiet the last couple of days, too. John had caught Dean giving Sammy a couple of Tylenol that morning, but hadn't said anything then. He regretted that now.

"Okay there, Tiger?"

Dean had beaten John to it. The older teen had twisted in the front passenger seat to look at his little brother and assess the situation.

"No," came the whimpered reply. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

John raised an eyebrow and exchanged a concerned look with Dean. For Sammy to admit he was feeling lousy at this age meant it was bad. Ahead he saw a road sign. _10 miles to Sleepyside_. John had worked a werewolf case there years back for a hunter named Jim Frayne when Sammy was still in diapers, and had kept in touch with the family off and on. Maybe Jim could let them hole up there. Sammy needed a bed, and probably needed a toilet, not the back seat of the Impala and a bush on the side of the road.

"Dad, pull over!" It was Dean. John glanced in the rearview mirror and slammed on the brakes at the sight of Sammy's face, pale and sweaty with red rimmed eyes, the kid breathing heavily with his lips clamped together. _Shit_. He knew that look. Dean threw open his door and dove for the back door, catching Sammy as the younger Winchester half tumbled out, his body wracked with heaves in the waning sunlight. The Queen Anne's lace and euphorbia on the side of the road wavered in a slight breeze, and a robin pecked hopefully at the bright red berries of a honeysuckle in the hedge. If John wasn't mistaken, he smelled an apple tree not too far off, for the scent of rotting apples was strong on the breeze.

Sammy whimpered again, coughing and gagging as he tried to clean himself up. John caught sight of red in the mess on the side of the road. Yep, that did it. The thirteen year old wasn't doing much more travelling tonight. As soon as Dean had Sammy bundled back into the car and had settled into the back seat with him, John took off with a squeal of rubber. If he recalled correctly, there was a shortcut to Jim's place just up ahead. It was an old seasonal use highway, and wouldn't do Sammy's stomach any favors at all, but it would shave a good six miles off the trip to Sleepyside.

"Dad, we need to hurry." He didn't miss the panic in Dean's voice, or that Sammy was clutching at his stomach and making the clamped lips face again.

"I know, Dean. We'll take a shortcut. I worked a case here a few years ago. Remember Jim Frayne?"

"The dude with the creepy snake infested mansion? Yeah."

"Let's see if we can hole up there for a few days while Sammy gets better."

"Good. No hospitals." The snakes were the least of their worries right now.

"Nope, not yet. No hospitals." He would see how Sammy was in the morning before making that decision.

They drove in silence for a mile or so, John swearing under his breath as the Impala bottomed out a few times on the rough road and Sammy whimpering louder each time. He was startled when Dean shrieked. His sons simply didn't _shriek_.

"DAD!"

John automatically glanced in the rearview mirror to check on Sammy. But no, the kid had finally fallen into something resembling sleep. Dean was staring at the side of the road up ahead, squinting in the blinding light of the setting sun.

John followed his gaze. A pale blue Subaru sat on the side of the dirt road, the front left tire at such an angle that meant the driver had hit one of those potholes that had torn up the undercarriage of the Impala with a cringingly loud scrape of metal on boulders. There was a man waving him down.

The man's arms waved frantically. As they got closer, John recognized him as Jim Frayne. His once titan hair was now peppered with white, his temples totally streaked white, and his beard had certainly seen better days. Something of the war and being a POW still lingered in Jim's eyes and stature after all these years.

For the second time that hour, John Winchester brought the Impala to a screeching stop.

"Jim?" he started, getting out of the car.

Jim ran to the car, slamming his hands onto the hood. "It's Nellie. We were in the summerhouse. She was bitten by a copperhead."

Subconsciously John registered Dean's shocked look, and that the teen was shifting Sammy so that there was more room in the back seat.

John followed Jim to the other car, wrenching open the passenger door to see Eleanor Frayne slumped against the seat belt. There was a tourniquet on her leg.

He could recognize that ashy pallor anywhere, but he checked for a pulse to be sure. John looked up at Jim and shook his head somberly.

"She's gone. I'm sorry."

Jim broke down and sobbed.

* * *

 **-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-**

* * *

John pulled into the hospital ER parking lot, his heart heavy, knowing it was just a matter of seconds before Dean opened his mouth. Sure enough…...

"Dad, you promised."

Dean glared at him accusingly.

Jim was slumped in the front seat. He hadn't spoken a word since John had managed to find a house with a working phone and call for an ambulance to come get Nell. They had found out which hospital and then John had driven to a different one. Sammy looked worse and Jim needed someone right now. John hated himself and knew it would be a long time before Dean forgave him.

"Don't argue. Get your brother inside."

"But, Dad-"

"NOW!" John roared. "I need to help Jim."

"And ignore us," Dean muttered under his breath. "The story of our life." But he still followed orders, accepting the fake insurance card and a wad of cash from John, and hoisting Sammy from the back seat.

"Call me when he's ready to come home."

Dean rolled his eyes, but got Sammy inside.

John turned back to Jim. The older man still hadn't moved. John shifted the Impala into Drive.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

 **-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-**

* * *

Dean hated hospitals. He wrestled doors and his brother's dead weight. A blonde nurse quickly came to help him.

He hated the fact that Dad had just dumped them off. _Again_.

He hated the heavy weight of his sick little brother in his arms.

Most of all, he hated when his dad was right.

The sight of blood in the vomit from Sammy earlier on the side of the road wasn't a good sign, but from the way Jim had been acting he needed help more than Sammy did. Help Dean couldn't give, but that his dad _could_. Dean shot the nurse a grateful look as the older woman helped him get Sammy settled into one of those hard, universal ER chairs.

"Thanks," Dean muttered. He fussed over Sammy, then looked up when the woman was back with a clipboard and the inevitable paperwork. Dean wordlessly handed her the fake insurance card. He hadn't bothered to look at the name on the card this time.

"What's your name, sweetie?" she asked. Her eyes were kind. She reminded him of Mom.

 _No. Don't go there._

"Don't call me that," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm Dean. This is Sam."

"Where are your parents?" she asked gently, watching as she filled out the forms.

There that flare of anger was again. "Mom's dead. Dad had to help a friend." Stick to the truth as much as possible. John had already drilled it into them that the best lies and the best aliases were based in truth.

Sammy shifted and turned white again, and he clutched at his stomach and at Dean at the same time.

"Oh, dear," the woman said, and she somehow made a basin appear for Sammy just in time.

There was more blood in the vomit this time. Dean grabbed that mental abrasiveness he seemed to rely on these days for strength, and didn't let go.

The woman patted him on the shoulder before she left again, in more of a hurry this time. He knew she meant it to be comforting.

But….

 _It wasn't Mom_.

Sammy sobbed and whimpered into Dean's shoulder.

As much as Dean wanted her back—still, after all these years— _he_ was that figure now.

And so Dean retreated under his abrasive mask, adopting a sullen look as he hovered and watched Sammy being attended to by the people the woman had brought, occasionally swatting them away because he could do it better when his brother was so sick, until she touched his shoulder.

She gently held her hand on his shoulder as they took Sammy into another room. "Stay here, Mr. Dolenz. It will be okay."

 _Dolenz._ That must have been the name on the insurance this time. When Dad talked about Mom, which was rare, he sometimes talked about listening to The Monkees with her.

"Let's go sit someplace private. The doctors will tell us when your brother is okay. Sound good?"

Dean wordlessly nodded and let her lead him to a quiet office with a stack of manila folders on the desk by the computer. He grimaced at the decor as she opened the door. Pale pink and pale blue stripes on a pale yellow background, with a wallpaper accent that had teddy bears in rocking chairs, balloons, and clowns.

He hated clowns.

He hated balloons.

He hated teddy bears and he hated rocking chairs.

He hated pediatrics wards.

He slumped against the corner and crossed his arms, glaring sullenly and daring her to speak again.

"My name is Helen Belden. I have some toddlers at home. They all hate this office, too. The clowns, right?" She gave a wry smile.

 _Nope. Not going there._

"Why are you here alone?"

Dean shrugged. Something in her eyes told him he could trust Helen, but he still kept the answer as curt and basic as he could. "When Sammy got sick Dad decided to take the shortcut to Sleepyside to an old friend he thought could help."

"Who is your dad's friend?"

"Jim Frayne." He needed to sound more sullen, he thought.

Helen's eyes twinkled. "He and his wife are our neighbors. I'm sure Nell would be delighted to have two boys running around again. She's been a huge help with the kids at home." She caught the look on Dean's face. "Dean? What's wrong?"

He whispered, "She was bitten by a copperhead."

Helen gasped and her hand flew to her mouth before she caught herself. "Oh, Jim," she breathed. "You found them on the seasonal shortcut, didn't you?"

Dean nodded. He hated himself for giving away that much.

"And that's where your dad is. He's with Jim."

Dean nodded again. "She didn't make it." He'd been hunting with Dad long enough that he knew when his dad knew someone wasn't going to live.

Helen's shocked look made him cringe. There, he'd gone and made someone else's life miserable. Again. The story of his life. He regretted even opening his mouth to tell her his name.

"Your father is a good man."

"No, he's not," Dean spat. "He dumped us here. He promised no hospitals!"

Helen gently grasped his shoulders. He couldn't help himself. He met her eyes, daring her, but all that was there was kindness and motherliness. The same look he remembered Mom giving him when he was bad, but she still loved him and needed to talk to him about his behavior. "Dean," she said gently, "your father had a choice. Help a sick son, or help a man who had just lost his wife. You said your mother died. Your dad knows the kind of grief Jim is facing right now. He knows that he can't help Sammy, _but you can_ , and from what I saw out there, you're very good at helping your brother. Your father trusts you to help your brother right now, while he helps his friend."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He wouldn't look at her. _He wouldn't! She's not Mom!_

A knock on the door made them both look up.

"Ah, Dr. Ferris," Helen greeted.

Dr. Ferris was another gentle-eyed woman, but her hair was as dark as Helen's was blonde. Dean glared at the stethoscope dangling heavily in the doctor's coat pocket and didn't say anything.

"Thank you, Helen. You're Dean Dolenz?" Dr. Ferris asked.

Dean nodded.

"You're brother's asking for you," she began.

"Where is he? Can I go see him? When can he come home?" Dean couldn't help himself. The questions poured from him and left Helen smiling.

"Sam is resting comfortably. I do want to keep him for a few days for IV fluids and to run some tests."

"Can I go see him?" Dean pressed.

"He's in the pediatrics ICU," Dr. Ferris started, and Dean rounded on her.

"ICU? He was just throwing up!"

"We're concerned that he is throwing up significant amounts of blood. We need to find out why."

Dean balled his hand into a fist and punched the wall. Drywall. He left a dent. He stared at the dent and the plaster dust on his knuckles, and the fresh blood that welled from a new cut. That damned yellow paint was in there, too. Helen tsked and reached for a pair of plastic gloves on a wall commodity of basic medical supplies that Dean hadn't noticed before. He kept his hand fisted, and jammed both into his pockets. Helen put the box of gloves back on the counter, the contents untouched.

She sighed, exchanging a look with Dr. Ferris. Dr. Ferris nodded slightly.

Helen grasped Dean's shoulders again.

"Tell you what," she said. "You let me patch that hand up, and you eat something, and then you can go see your brother."

He was doing a lot of glaring at people who didn't deserve it. He glared anyway.

"No," he said. "I want to see my brother. Now."

* * *

 **-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-**

* * *

 _ **NOW…**_

"Whoa! Earth to Dean!"

The shout from Sammy made Dean jump. He cursed and jerked the wheel of the Impala, sending their old car skidding back out of the oncoming traffic lane.

"What was that all about?" Sam demanded. Dean shot a glance at the younger man, narrowing his eyes at the way the five o'clock shadow on Sam's cheeks making his eyes seem sunken.

"Remember when you were in the hospital with an ulcer? You would have been thirteen or so?"

"Um. Not really."

"Well, it happened right when one of Dad's friends lost his wife. Copperhead. He helped him and we stayed with the guy's neighbors after you got out of the hospital."

"Oh, that. Yeah. Their name was Belden, wasn't it? With us around they had five kids to look after."

Dean pointed at the next street sign. _Sleepyside-on-Hudson, NY: 2 miles_. "Want to swing by and say hi?"


	2. Shapeshifter

A/N 1: Wow. Trixie as a squealy thirteen year old from 1948 is hard to write for a gritty adult series. I've tried to downplay her enthusiasm a little to make her more modern, and I've changed some parts of the plot to fit a modern plot. The years following World War II saw a major increase in an idea that nature was a healer, and that moving to nature was good for lots of different reasons. This idea became the Back to Nature movement of the 1970s, and to a large extent we're seeing the same idea resurfacing today. The Adirondacks and the Hudson Valley were popular destinations for those fleeing urbanity. I've kept true to that idea, but I've slightly changed it to fit an audience with a far more modern demographic. As a result I had to play around with a backstory to make it fit into this modern, grittier retelling.

A/N 2: Most of this piece will be from the point of view of Sam and Dean, especially Dean, with Trixie and her supporting characters as peripheral plots. I'll mainly be focusing on the story of Jim Frayne, his relation to John Winchester, and why Sam and Dean are hanging around Sleepyside-on-Hudson for the length of the plot of the first two Trixie Belden books. I think there's a lot there to work with that could have been explored more fully in the books had they been written for adults and not young adolescent girls (for example, the canine plot that this chapter ends with wasn't really explored fully in the originals) and I'm really excited about how much this story wants to be told.

Disclaimer: Anything recognizable isn't mine. Everyone will be put back to normal when the story is finished.

* * *

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* * *

Chapter 2

Shapeshifter

Crabapple Farm, the old 19th century farm where the Beldens lived, was almost exactly as Dean remembered it. There was the two story whitewashed farmhouse, and the ranch style garage that had been added on sometime in the 1960s, and a modest garden along one side held new carrots, a row of potato mounds, a trellis of peas, and other things Dean didn't recognize. The yard of the old Victorian Italianate mansion on the hill neighboring the farm was a flurry of activity with U-Haul trucks. "Huh. Somebody's moving in," Sam stated.

In the garden was Helen Belden, weeding, and trying to comfort a teenage girl who was clearly her daughter. The girl was sitting next to Helen in the dirt and had her hands fisted in her short curly hair. She looked exactly like a young Helen. And, Dean realized, she looked utterly miserable.

A few chickens wandered loose, and there was an Irish setter with ginger hair sitting by them in a corner of the garden. The dog started barking as soon as the Impala pulled into the driveway.

Helen glanced up as the Impala chugged up the lane and came to a stop beside the garden.

Sam kept a wary eye on the dog as the brothers got out. "Hullo, Helen," Dean said with a grin, somewhat throatily, but that was as far as he got. The girl glanced at them, focused her eyes on something beyond the two brothers, then jumped up excitedly, shading her eyes against the summer sun.

" _Oh, Mom!_ " she squealed. "There's someone moving in next door! OH!"

Sam cringed as the squeals got louder.

" _There are horses!_ "

Helen laughed, forgetting the two guests for a moment. "Trixie, we tried to tell you at dinner last night that a family with a girl your age was moving in next door. You were too miserable about Brian and Mart being away at Boy Scout camp to listen."

"Can I go up and see the horses?"

"I made zucchini bread and crabapple jam for our new neighbors. It's in a basket on the kitchen counter. Why don't you go get Bobby and take the basket up to them?"

The door to the farmhouse slammed shut as the whirlwind that was Trixie dashed inside, then reappeared moments later wearing clean jeans with the hems rolled up, exposing a pair of plain brown sandals on her feet. She had quickly changed out of her dirty plaid cutoff shirt into a slightly cleaner brown shirt with lace short sleeves. She was clutching a basket in one hand and was joined by a boy about six. The boy's curly hair had been hastily dampened and combed, and he was grumbling and squirming as Trixie held him tightly by the hand. Helen shook her head, still laughing, as Trixie and Bobby walked up the hill to the Manor House with the basket swinging on Trixie's arm and the teen doing her best to control the young boy.

"Reddy, heel!" she called to the dog, who promptly joined them. The dog yipped excitedly ahead of them, stopping for the two to catch up then dashing ahead.

Helen got up from the garden stool she was sitting on to greet the brothers.

"Dean and Sam Winchester. It's been too long! Come and let me have a look at you two! Don't mind Trixie, she is firmly in a _Black Beauty_ stage right now and nothing will dissuade her."

"It's been a long time, Helen," Dean said, grinning and returning the hug.

The sound of another car pulling into the driveway caught Helen's attention. "Oh," she said, her smile wavering slightly, shading her eyes against the sun. "Peter's home early."

"Yeah?" Sam said, grinning. He was remembering how much he had enjoyed their time with this family. They had always smiled and laughed with each other as well as anyone who was their guest, and it looked like that hadn't changed very much. He wondered what would bring Peter Belden home early, and from Helen's reaction it sounded like it was a rare occurrence. "What's he up to these days?"

"Peter," Helen said, a slight prideful tone in her voice, "manages the Sleepyside First Bank now." The smile was back on her face.

Peter pulled his slightly newer Jeep into the garage, then joined Helen the brothers. "Well, if it isn't Sam and Dean Winchester. How are you two these days?" he greeted them. After the greetings he turned to Helen. "I've just come from the hospital. Jim Frayne took a bad fall this morning by his mailbox. The doctors said it was a heart attack."

Helen looked shocked. "Oh, Peter. I wish we'd been better neighbors. I had no idea."

Sam and Dean exchanged a concerned look. "Jim was a friend of our dad's," Dean started.

"Yes, I remember," Peter said.

Helen shook her head. "I still remember the day I met you two, and learning that Nell Frayne had died from being bitten by a copperhead snake."

"It was a shock to all of us that she'd died," Peter added. "Jim told me that he took the old shortcut to town to try to get her to a hospital fast. Well, you remember that old shortcut, I'm sure. They got a flat tire and the pothole that did it tore up the rim."

Dean nodded. "I remember." He exchanged a questioning glance with Sam— _Do we find out how much they know about how Dad really knew Jim?_ —and the slight nod of agreement from the younger man left him unconsciously fidgeting. This family was sweet and friendly, and had helped the two of them through a rough time as surely as they had helped the family with the loss of Nell Frayne, who clearly had meant a lot to them.

"Come on in," Helen said brightly. "I baked this morning. The chickens and the zucchini are overproducing, as usual."

* * *

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* * *

 _ **Then**_ …..

Dean didn't move as Helen brought the car to a stop in front of a quaint old farmhouse a few miles outside the town that the hospital served. "Sam will be all right," she said, placing her hand again on Dean's shoulder. Dean wished she would stop doing that. "But they won't let you stay with him." It was late, 9 PM, and in the dying dusk Dean could see that the farmhouse sat at the bottom of a hill that had woods starting about halfway up it. Fireflies were starting their nightly dance. He'd never really watched them before.

"I know. I'm not eighteen yet." Sammy had just turned thirteen that spring, and that meant, according to Sammy, that they were only _three_ years apart now. Dean still insisted he was four years older. As far as hospital policies were concerned, being almost seventeen didn't mean he could stay 24/7 with his brother, even if their dad was temporarily out of the picture.

Helen to the rescue. She had told the staff that their dad would be staying with a neighbor friend of the Beldens' to help with getting things ready for Nell Frayne's funeral, and that she would take Dean with her to find him.

Of course, that meant that Dean would have to—temporarily—deal with an apple pie lifestyle from a family that _really_ didn't know what was out there, and he was damned if he would let anyone get hurt on _his_ watch.

"We'll put you up in the guest room," Helen said, getting her purse from the back seat of the car. "I'm not sure you'd much enjoy sharing a room with Brian and Mart. Brian is five and Mart is two."

Dean couldn't help but give a small smile at the realization that the Belden boys were almost the same age difference as him and Sam. He got out of the car and slammed the door closed maybe a little harder than he'd meant to.

"And I'm sure you don't want to share the nursery with Trixie. She's one, almost two."

Dean caught a glimpse of Helen watching him carefully. Was she trying to see what it took to break him out of the shell?

He followed her warily into the farmhouse.

A cheery yellow patterned throw rug graced the hardwood floors in the living room. Pale green lace curtains fluttered in opened screen windows. It wasn't the child-oriented décor of Helen's office at the hospital. Gods, thankfully it wasn't that awful clown wallpaper.

* * *

- **SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-**

* * *

 _ **Now…**_

The zucchini bread was delicious. Helen served it with iced tea, fresh homemade butter, and something she called lemon curd, which Dean found out, was made with just butter, eggs, sugar, and lemons. It was thick and sweet and deep yellow from the eggs that Helen proudly said were from her flock, and he couldn't get enough of it, and she promised them a copy of the recipe. It sounded so easy to make! When they got back to the bunker he was _definitely_ calling breakfast duty.

"You've changed," Helen said, after they'd eaten in silence for a few minutes. Reddy, the Irish setter, was back and whining at the door, his tail tucked between his legs. Peter got up to let the dog back in. Reddy burrowed himself under Helen's chair. Apparently his behavior was a regular occurrence, because neither Belden commented on it.

Peter agreed. "Something's different about you two. Like Jim, later on."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance mid bite and mid chew. "Uh, about that," Dean said, remembering to swallow. He took a sip of his tea, wondering how to start. "Our dad worked a few odd jobs with Jim Frayne," he began, and paused. "Well, um," and he took another sip of tea, "the night his wife died, Sammy here got sick and Dad decided that since we were already in Sleepyside, he'd see if Jim would let us crash at his place for a few days while Sammy got better. Then…..well, we found Jim and the wrecked car on the side of the road, and his wife was already dead."

He reached for another slice of bread and the lemon curd.

* * *

 **-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-SPN-**

* * *

 _ **Then…**_

Dean would have told Sammy off if his kid brother mentioned anything— _anything_!—about the fact that he had jumped a mile when Helen came back into the living room. Shit, she had just left to go turn down the sheets for him in the guest room.

Truth be told, he'd been eyeballing the lights from a mansion on the hill in the woods. Flickering lights set slightly closer to the driveway said mosquito candle on a stick. Another, better kept mansion was further down the U-shaped driveway, its yard looking rather like something out of a Victorian horror novel in the gloom of the night. He was wondering if the family was safe with that old mansion in the woods so close.

"I told Peter we have a house guest for a few days. Peter is my husband."

Dean heard the familiar chug of the Impala as it turned into the driveway.

"Dad!"

He couldn't help himself, and started for the door.

Helen grabbed his arm.

"Dean, sweetie—"

" _Don't call me that! You're not Mom!_ "

He jerked out of her grasp as they both exchanged shocked looks. "I'm—I'm sorry." He could hear movement upstairs as the muffled cries of a baby started. He groaned inwardly. Great.

Helen sighed. The laughter was gone from her eyes now. Dean braced himself. "Dean, Jim Frayne lives in the mansion in the woods. I saw you looking at it and thought you were watching for your father."

"I didn't know Jim lives there."

" _Call me when he's ready to come home._ "

Helen guided him to the couch, and he finally gave in to her. He sat.

"Give them time. Let your father help Jim grieve."

"You know a lot about grief."

Helen got a far off look. "My brothers died three years ago. It takes time to heal from death. Our boys, Brian and Mart…they're named for them." She fingered a silver bracelet on her left wrist; she wore a matching ring on her right hand; they were both adorned with large charms. In the gloom of the single light from the living room lamp, and the dark of the night from the window, Dean couldn't quite make them out.

"Oh." He scuffed his toe at a ragged corner of the rug, then, "I'm sorry."

* * *

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* * *

 _ **Now…**_

Dean brought himself back to the present with difficulty. Peter was asking Sam what they were up to these days, and what had brought them to Sleepyside. As Sam stumbled through an explanation, the four of them started when a shrill scream of fear pierced the quiet surroundings. It was followed quickly by two more screams. They all faintly heard a growl, and Dean was pretty sure it wasn't from Reddy, who was still whimpering under Helen's chair.

"Those came from the old mansion!" Peter exclaimed. "There's been an old mangy dog running around here. The SPCA caught wind of it last week and has been keeping tabs on it. Folks who have seen it said it was rabid."

"The kids!" Helen cried. Her hand went to the silver bracelet still on her wrist after all these years. The bracelet held a twisted, contorted piece of metal as its central charm, one that Dean could recognize even given its distorted appearance. Dean now realized that the ring on her hand contained another bit of metal twisted beyond recognition.

But he recognized them.

Silver bullets.

 _Fuck_.

"Stay here."

Dean's deep voiced order brought the elder Beldens to a stop. Helen was half up from the table and Peter had already made his way to the windows, pulling back the curtain as he did so.

Helen exchanged a confused look with Peter, but only for a moment. Dean and Sam both were shocked to see _both_ Peter and Helen with looks of realization of just what the Winchesters were. Peter was looking at them with a clenched jawline and a determined expression on his face.

"Stay here, Helen. I'll go with Sam and Dean to make sure the kids are okay," Peter said.

The three men hurried out of the house. Dean could plainly hear Trixie's tones up the hill in the woods by the mansion, but couldn't make out what she was saying. Peter detoured quickly to the garage, returning with a shotgun and cartridges, while Sam threw open the trunk of the Impala and he and Dean both grabbed weapons.

Bobby came barreling down the hill. Dean had forgotten just how fast six year olds can run when they want _out, now_. " _ **DADDY**_!" Bobby screeched, panicking as he was suddenly grabbed by a scruffy looking man who had leapt at him from a nearby bush, still morphing from dog to human. The man clamped a hand over Bobby's mouth, muffling the youngster's screams.

Dean vaguely registered Trixie and a sickly looking girl with a short bob cut of golden brown hair run out of the woodline and stop short, watching with shocked faces as the scene unfolded. Dean trained his pistol on the man, his expression hardening at the site of the boy struggling in the creature's arms.

 _Well. Shit_.

Peter Belden spoke grimly, keeping his rifle trained on the creature holding his son captive. "Shapeshifter."


	3. The Usual Order of Things

A/N: Still don't own anything.

Anything recognizable isn't mine.

I was going to wait until I had another chapter written to update, but the next two days I am off doing archaeology thingz in a very deep hole full of water and will not be around a computer. So, you get two chapters in one day!

Something I'm finding out is that while reworking these old stories to fit the SPN verse, I'm starting to use a LOT of the 1940s colloquial dialects. It doesn't help my colloquials much that a good part of my job involves going through old Victorian documents.

* * *

Chapter 3

The Usual Order of Things

Bobby Belden squirmed in the shapeshifter's grasp, his cries muffled by the creature's hand over his mouth.

Beside Dean, Peter Belden took careful aim with his rifle.

" _ **DAD**_!" Trixie shrieked, horrified. The sickly girl with her had turned her back on the scene and was trying to cover both her face and her ears at the same time.

"Stay back, Trixie," Peter ordered. He pulled the trigger and the bullet kicked up gravel by the shapeshifter's foot. Bobby's eyes widened even more at the sound of the shotgun's retort, and he stared at his father in shocked silence.

The creature jerked his foot back, glaring at the Hunters. Then he dropped Bobby and melted into the neatly trimmed privet hedge lining the drive.

Peter reached his son first, scooping the youngster up in his arms as Bobby began to wail. Sam reached the spot next, grabbing the rifle from Peter so the father had both hands free to comfort his son. A small crowd of people were hurrying down the hill from the Manor House; they'd been attracted by the gunshot. Sam stepped forward to do crowd control.

Dean stuffed his own firearm into the back of his jeans as he hurried past the other men to the girls. "Everyone okay?" he asked.

Trixie was crouched near the other girl, who had apparently passed out. "Honey, wake up!" At the sound of Dean's voice Trixie started and quickly jammed something in her pocket.

She had pushed the girl's head between her knees and was kneading the back of the girl's neck.

"Hey, I'm Dean." _If only Lisa had had a daughter._ Boys he could deal with. Girls were completely out of his element unless they were for flirting.

"My name is Trixie. It's short for Beatrix but I hate that name."

"Who is your friend? What's wrong with her?" _Distract them_. Yep, that always worked with Ben.

"This is Madeleine Wheeler, only everyone calls her Honey. We just met this morning. Oh, she won't want to be friends anymore after all this!" Trixie wailed.

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean said, feeling Honey's neck for a pulse. It was there, not as strong as Dean liked, but it was there. He caught sight of a new, angry looking IV wound in Honey's arm. "What happened to—you said her name is Honey?"

Trixie nodded and took a shuddering breath. "Her parents moved here because Honey was sick with leukemia. They moved from Manhattan after her last treatment so that she could get better away from the bullies at her old school. We were investigating Ten Acres—Miser Frayne's old place—because Honey said that she and her father saw someone poking around up here last night. We got to the hedge and a dog jumped at Honey. Except it was a shapeshifter. And you watched it grab Bobby."

 _Fuck_. Did this whole family know about Hunters, then?

"How do you know about shapeshifters?" Dean asked firmly, taking over from Trixie to knead Honey's neck. "And why do you call him 'Miser Frayne'?"

"Um."

Trixie finally shoved him away, a guilty look on her face. "Actually, I think it was the dog Mr. Lytell down at the pharmacy was telling Moms about last week. He said the SPCA said it was rabid. And the man who grabbed Bobby was probably who Honey and her dad saw up here last night." She very carefully didn't look at Dean.

"Hey," Dean said, grabbing her by the shoulder. "You know about shapeshifters. So does your father. Is he a Hunter?"

Trixie still didn't meet his gaze, and turned her attention back to Honey, shushing Dean with a quick motion of her hand. The girl was stirring. Dean took a quick glance toward Sam. Good. The others were leaving.

"Trixie?" Honey mumbled.

"Hey. Think you can walk?" Trixie pointedly ignored Dean.

"Who is that man?" Honey shied away from Dean as he tried to help her up.

"Um," Trixie said again.

"Dean Winchester," he said, giving the grin he had always given Ben when the boy had needed some encouragement. "We stayed with Trixie's mom once when we were kids ourselves."

"We?"

Well, at least Trixie was observant.

"My brother, Sam." He pointed down the drive, where Sam was still with Peter managing crowd control. Finally, the last of the stragglers, a young man about twenty five, left to go back to the Manor House.

"Trixie!" Peter called. "Come down to the house."

Despite Honey's struggles, Dean and Trixie helped her up. Trixie steadied her new friend on the walk down the drive to her father.

"Take Bobby into the house." Peter Belden shot Sam and Dean both calculating looks, then held Trixie's chin firmly. "Do the usual."

"But, Dad," Trixie whined.

"NOW, Trixie. I'll take your friend back to the Manor House. Don't go wandering into Ten Acres alone, especially with your friend and Bobby, now until we get this cleared up. Mr. Frayne won't be home for a while, and your brothers are at Scout Camp. You know what's up there."

"Dad—"

"You know the rules."

Trixie sighed, then exchanged Honey for Bobby, pulled a silver knife out of her back pocket, and went to the house. Bobby squirmed the whole way, trying to slip his hand out of her firm grip. Helen met her at the door, a crucifix already dangling from her belt. Honey stood cautiously to one side. Her stance reminded Dean of a feral cat, not sure whether she could trust the three men or not, nor even her new friend.

In almost an act of defiance, or so it seemed to Dean, Trixie stopped at the doorway, let her mother take Bobby, and then turned to face her father. A grimly stubborn look on her face, she used the knife to slice her palm, and let the blood from the wound drip slowly onto the threshold, then slapped her hand firmly onto an old rusty spot that Dean now realized was covered with old blood, not rust. She held the gaze with her father, daring him, til she grabbed Bobby's hand from Helen and went into the house.

Helen briefly met Peter's eyes, then turned and followed Trixie and Bobby into the house, closing the front door behind them.

* * *

Honey Wheeler started back up the hill to the Manor House on shaky feet. She was still dizzy and feeling foggy from passing out and just wanted to go back home to Manhattan. She wasn't quite sure what she'd just witnessed, and after Bobby was grabbed she'd stopped caring, until Trixie sliced open her own hand just because her father told her to. The man who acted like Trixie's father came after her and caught her by the wrist. She faintly heard Bobby shrieking from the upstairs of the house. The men ignored the shrieks and focused on her. What in the world could be so bad that they needed to ignore a little boy?

"Leave me alone!" she cried. "Let me go!"

"Drink," Trixie's father said firmly, holding out a water bottle to her. It was an old plastic bottle—clean—and was marked in faded permanent marker with a cross. His eyes were kind but stern.

"No," she said as defiantly as she could.

The other two odd men who said they knew the Beldens were behind him, watching everything with hard faces.

"Trust us," the one who had called himself Dean said. "It's for your own good."

She eyed the bottle with the hand drawn cross warily. "What is it?"

"Just water. Drink." The father's voice was still firm, and stern, but oddly gentle.

"What's going on?" she asked as she finally took the water bottle from him and took a cautious sip. It was slightly stale, but suddenly she realized how thirsty she was after the walk with Trixie and Bobby this morning, and that she was still sick, and she drained the bottle.

The three men exchanged glances.

"Well," the one whom Dean had said was called Sam, "that answers that." Peter's lips twitched as he took the bottle back from Honey and stuffed it back in his coat pocket.

She heard Dean ask Sam quietly, "What did you tell the neighbors?", and Sam answered back, with practically a verbal shrug, "the usual X-Filesy stuff."

Peter Belden came to walk beside Honey, and handed Dean his shotgun. "I'm sorry your first week here has been so unsettling," he said. "I'm Peter, Trixie and Bobby's father."

"What happened back there?" Honey tried again. "Dad and I were out riding last night and we thought we saw someone poking around that old mansion. I told Trixie about it and she insisted on exploring up there." She shuddered. She wasn't sure she would ever understand why Trixie had been made to cut her hand open like that, and she wasn't sure she would want the answer.

"Ten Acres, the old mansion in the woods between our properties, belongs to an old man named Jim Frayne," Peter explained. Honey registered that Dean and Sam were following close enough to listen but far enough away to give them privacy. "Jim is a good friend of mine from an old job. He's in the hospital with a heart attack. The stories circulating about Ten Acres mean that there will be a lot of people coming around the next few weeks to see if the stories are true."

Honey looked at him. "What kind of stories? You mean all of what Trixie said about werewolves and ghosts and burning bushes up there are true?"

Peter gave a wry smile. "In these old country villages there are often supernatural stories based around queer old properties that nobody visits anymore. They are two thirds sensational, four parts misidentification, and one smidge truth. Remember that."

He was so stern that he reminded Honey of the intimidating old butler that her mother's ancient aunt had employed when Honey was far younger. "Yessir," she squeaked.

He laughed. "Please. Just call me Peter. The stories people will be looking into will include whether old Jim really hid half a million dollars in Ten Acres, and whether there really is any truth to the old story Nell, his wife, always told of him having a long lost nephew." Honey joined Sam and Dean in gaping this time.

They had reached the lawn of the Manor House now. Dean and Sam hung back, keeping a wary eye, while Peter went up to the start of the buildings with Honey. The young man from earlier met them at the corner of the stables. "Mr. Belden," he said. His greeting wasn't very warm at all.

"Regan, it's all right," Honey started, but the man put himself protectively between her and Peter.

"Stay there," he ordered. "I promised your father I'd look after you while he was away." He snorted. "Lousy job I've done of it, too, and with you being so sick still!"

Peter held up his hands. "I don't blame you," he said. "You've come here for a fresh start, and something extraordinary happened just now on our front lawn."

"The fed who isn't a fed?" Regan snorted again as he took in Sam and Dean standing at the edge of the lawn with their firearms. "Or the dog that turned into a man?" His fingers itched toward the knife on his belt; Dean and Sam automatically held their firearms so that they could take out a threat immediately.

Honey sucked in a high pitched breath.

"Honey will be safe here," Peter said. "I promise. The agents"—and here he clearly emphasized the word—"are staying in town for a few days investigating what happened with my son. You'll be able to bring your concerns up with them." He reached into his pocket and drew out a business card, and handed the white card to Regan. "In the meantime, you can reach them through me. My number."

With that, he turned, motioned for Sam and Dean to follow him, and walked back down the hill to Crabapple Farm.


	4. The Brass Key

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter 4

The Brass Key

Dean and Sam followed Peter Belden down to the farmhouse on Crabapple Farm, watching each other out of the corners of their eyes and having a silent conversation of the type they'd perfected while working together so they could convey ideas without their dad hearing them.

 _Do we find out what's going on, or do we split?_

 _We have to find out now._

 _This is going to be awkward…..._

 _So? Find the monster and gank them, that's what we do._

 _Dean, be nice!_

As they got closer to the farmhouse, Dean registered that Bobby wasn't shrieking bloody murder anymore.

"Uh, what happened back there?" Dean asked. "Why did Trixie mark the threshold with her own blood?"

Peter glanced quickly at him, and for a moment Dean thought he saw familiarity. _Was Peter an angel in disguise?_ "Wards. Sometimes they require human blood."

The elder Belden stopped at the entrance to the side garage, and took his shotgun from Dean. "I can see you two are itching for answers." He gave a wry smile. "You're just like your father."

Sam and Dean exchanged stunned looks at the mention of John Winchester, two years dead.

"We'll get everyone together inside and talk," Peter promised.

* * *

Helen put a fresh plate of zucchini bread and a new pitcher of iced tea on the table, but nobody was in the mood. Bobby had been banished to his room. Trixie showed up to help Helen, with her hand stitched and bandaged. She kept flexing it absently.

The five of them sat down at the table. Helen took off her bracelet and ring and put them in the center, by the bread.

"Those are silver bullets!" Sam exclaimed, surprised. He reached for the ring, looking at Helen. "May I?"

Helen nodded slightly. "My brothers, Brian and Mart, were werewolves. They were Hunters, too, but had been bitten."

"Your father," Peter added, "helped myself and old Jim contain them. Finally we just had to kill them outright."

"Odd _memento mori_ ," Sam said.

Helen shrugged. "It's all I have left of them. And it's a reminder. We named our eldest boys after them. Brian and Mart are at Scout camp this summer."

Dean said, "When we took Honey Wheeler back to the—you called it the Manor House, Peter?—she said that Trixie had told her a lot of stories of Ten Acres being full of werewolves and ghosts."

Trixie shrank guiltily into her chair as Peter shot her a severe look that said _We'll deal with this later_.

"When my brothers were bitten," Helen explained, "Jim kept them secured in the basement up at Ten Acres. In these small country towns, rumors spread like wildfire. We managed to start one that said that they'd come down with smallpox. Sam, your doctor when you were here last, Dr. Ferris—her father was the doctor back then, and yes, he was a Hunter, too. In fact, he started the smallpox rumor, and even forged documents that supposedly proved it. At least, it kept the journalists busy for a few weeks while headlines blasted things about Sleepyside being quarantined, due to a smallpox outbreak at Ten Acres. We didn't want anyone else to get bitten."

"That's how you knew that what got Bobby today was a shapeshifter," Dean realized.

Peter nodded. "Jim came down last week to let me know that the shapeshifter was skulking around up there. He wanted to make sure we were all right and that I knew how to deal with it."

"Oh!" Trixie gasped. "Now it all makes sense! Dad, yesterday Reddy chased Queenie, Mr. Frayne's old hen, back through the hedge and I went after Reddy to call him off. Mr. Frayne came out on the porch waving a shotgun at me and screeching that I was possessed. And then today Honey said that she and her dad saw someone poking around up there last night."

Everyone looked at her. "Trixie, why didn't you tell us?" Peter asked. "Jim put an iron Devil's Trap in the ground up there, and buried sacks of salt around its borders, but it doesn't work on some things. You know that."

"I'm sorry, Dad. You rushed off in a hurry this morning and I couldn't find the right time last night."

Peter sighed. "The reason I was hurried this morning is because Jim Frayne is in the hospital. His heart gave out when he went to get the mail. His doctors don't expect him to live."

Helen said quietly, "Peter, do you think there is any truth to the story Nell always told about them having a nephew upstate?"

"I do," Peter said. "I was a witness when the Fraynes amended their will to name the nephew as their sole heir."

Trixie's eyes bulged. "Sole heir?" she squeaked. "That's an awful lot like the old stories."

Everyone chuckled, then Peter got up and went to the antique Chippendale desk in the corner of the living room. He came back with a small box, which he handed to Sam.

The box was wood, and engraved with a Devil's Trap. Sam opened it, pulled out a skeleton key that was made from brass and had a Devil's Trap as part of its handle design. The workmanship and design screamed that the key was old, but Peter had kept it in good condition.

"Jim gave me this key two years ago," Peter said. "He said it was to be given to his nephew."

"What's his nephew's name?" Sam asked.

"James Winthrop Frayne the Second. I was told by George Rainsford, the attorney who drew up the will, that young Jim lives in Albany with his stepfather. The stepfather is Carlton Jones and has a truck repair yard. Rainsford checked on the boy just a few months ago and reported him to be in good health and good spirits."

"Sorry, an attorney has already checked on Jim's nephew? Why didn't he give him the key then?" Sam set the key back in the box and set the box in the center of the table.

"He reported that Jones was acting erratically. Yes, Rainsford is a Hunter, too."

 _Damn. Did the whole village know about their kind?_

"Erratically, how?" Dean asked.

"Black eyes." Peter looked as though he wanted to add more.

"Dad," Trixie broke in urgently, "I just thought of something. What if the person Honey and her dad saw last night was Mr. Frayne's nephew, and the shapeshifter was sent by his stepfather to bring him back?"

Peter pursed his lips. Sam and Dean exchanged a look. The kid's logic was sound and Dean could see that Sam didn't like the implications any more than he or Peter did.

"Helen, go down to the basement with the kids."

"Dad, I want to come, too! I can shoot as well as Brian can, and you're the one always making me do the wards!"

"No, Trixie," Peter said sternly. "Your job is to keep Bobby safe, spread the salt lines, and strengthen the wards. We will go up to Ten Acres after you and your mother have done all that and gone to the basement."

"The last time someone inexperienced tagged along with us because they wanted to Hunt," Dean pointed out, "they got kidnapped by Charles Manson's ghost. Personally, I agree with your father. Hunting is too dangerous."

"Dad—"

"No buts, Trixie. _No_ ," Peter added forcefully as Trixie took a breath through her open mouth, presumably to give her resume of Hunting experience. "Strengthen the wards. Keep Bobby safe. _Stay here_."

* * *

 _To be continued..._


End file.
